Man in the Glass
The anti-psychotics I took that year made the world
inside me sublime. My eyes moved over
the shape of a face, the delicate wind in a tree.
I felt nothing. I wrote no poems.
The language of beauty divided itself
into basic descriptions of fact.
I wandered from place to place,
stoplight to stoplight,
waiting for something to break from the skyline,
force me to finally stay.
I gained weight. I measured my sadness in lies.
In small medications. Doses.
I smelled things that couldn’t be there,
convinced I was dying from an airborne chemical
someone had blown in my ear.
But then there were moments of pure
unexplainable light. Clouds held signs
in their delicate swells. You could feel them rubbing
their moon-lit backs on the fields
of darkness behind. I would sometimes notice
a face in the glass,
in the polished aluminum wall of a downtown bank,
and for a moment of sweetness,
I knew I was gone. I was nothing to speak of,
no one at all. And the stranger I saw
looking back in the dark
was a man with no future, no name to remember,
no place in the world but this.